It’s that time of year again….Right around this time every year, right when we all hope it will get warm again, we at EWR kinda get a little goofy and come up with a contest. This year we are starting with fiction. We want your best 50 word story. That’s right 50 words. The story needs to have a beginning, middle, and end (follow plot and other story elements). We are looking for the best 50 words in any genre. These can be horror or science fiction or literary. It doesn’t matter. We are looking for the story that we think is best. The contest runs from now until June 14th 2014. That means you have a couple of months to come up with something good. We want these stories posted in the comments below. We will take the best of those stories and publish them on our 50 Word Story page. The best story will be published with a bio and links on EWR: Short Stories. The author will be the Winner of the EWR: 50 Word Story Prize, and that author will win 3 free months of advertising on EWR. We will give you a promotional package that includes a 300×300 ad in our sidebars and social network promotions (this is worth $900). So it is a pretty big prize if you are trying to get your literary magazine off the ground or you are trying to promote your book. So we want:
- 50 Word Short Story in the comments below.
- The story must be unpublished (on your personal blog or social network site is acceptable)
- The story must be posted before Midnight on June 14th 2014
We hope you win. Please start posting your best 50 word stories.
I woke in mid-nightmare: I was dead and in my grave. They say you can’t dream you die, but I had. The room was utterly black. I rose from the bed, raised the blinds, looked outside. There was light. I saw a throng. All weeping. All dressed in black.
She was brunette with the most beautiful blue eyes he had seen. He was a charming and handsome Venezuelan man. They had great passion, long nights of lovers’ whispers and laughs. No end in sight for their love! Then the day came when their love ended, never to meet again.
Having put the finishing touches on 540 pages of purple prose, the ambitious young writer parked his pen and suddenly wondered, “They did say Grape American Novel, didn’t they?”
As a child, hyphen was the first thing she learnt, and she loved it. Straight line, no nonsense. The caverns inside the other alphabets always ended up deceiving her. That line was the only thing she could cling to, without being scared of falling apart.
“We don’t want people like you!” The adoption agency slammed its doors.
Margaret and Anne left, hugging tight.
“We’d love the child as our own,” Margaret sobbed.
“We’ll try the old-fashioned way,” Anne said.
A boy stayed out after dark. Fangs caught the moonlight.
“Come to mama,” Anne hissed.
“You can always call me,” Mom said.
I did. Partying, drinking, I called, and Mom drove me home.
Lectures came later. “You need to be responsible.”
I laughed.
3 AM. Raining. Mom picked me up.
A semi crashed into us.
She lies still. There is no one to call.
Mitzvah
I point to my car. I see some tatooed,baggy pants kid open my driver door. Awkwardly, I push my arthritic knees beyond their ability, trying to catch the prick,only to overhear him say, “Hold on,old car like this, battery will shut off before the lights do.”
It chased him through the dense forest and backed him into a cave. He pulled his sword, closed his eyes and swung. There was a blunt sound as a fist against a punching bag. He opened his eyes and was horrified. The aide was bleeding. The hallucinations were getting worse.
Trophy Wife
“Georgia, let me.” I look at my beloved, fourteen years my senior, and hand him the commercial grade weed whacker. He only makes three passes on the steep bank compared to my twelve passes. He then studies me through his grass spattered glasses, “Georgia, I’m gonna marry you.”
Dizzy with rage, she kept walking.
“Hey!” the crossing-guard shouted. “Who’s that girl in the pink shirt?”
She gripped her lunch-box tighter. Its lid was dented.
That boy deserved it, she thought fiercely. He wouldn’t be picking on her best friend again.
“Hey! You there!” someone shouted. She kept walking.
The zombies crashed into the house.
“Brains!” they moaned.
The family was gathered around the television, watching. No one moved.
The zombies scratched their heads. The parents were staring at the screen. The children’s mouths were open.
“No brains!” the zombies moaned.
And moved on to the next house.
The razor was ready.
She pictured the funeral, empty of mourners. She imagined the grave, with no one beside it. She saw the hearse holding her casket, lonely and abandoned, like she was.
She put the razor away. It takes six friends to carry a coffin. And she had none.
Whoops, I was short a word! Here’s 50.
The zombies crashed into the house.
“Brains!” they moaned.
The family was gathered around the television, watching. None of them moved.
The zombies scratched their heads. The parents were staring at the screen. The children’s mouths hung open.
“No brains!” the zombies moaned.
And moved on to the next house.
Black bundle in the dark, condensation of night, cloud fallen on the ledge?
Hand extended, put a modest mound of cat crunchies before the foremost protuberance. Pause.
Contracting, swaying away, it topples hissing soundless into my garden thorns below.
Branches overhead shake awake with birds’ chirping, sounds mocking and sudden.
Our contest is closed. We will announce the winner in a couple days…..